The Art of Survival
by Raquelita
Summary: "You should never thank the likes of me," he said, "Save your praises for knights on white horses, little bird, not dogs." "It would appear a dog is all I have," she whispered.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: My first multi-chapter SanSan fic. Woo! **

Sansa thought of her sister often.

Since they were children, Arya had always been the wilder one – the adventurous one, the one who was never afraid. She had possessed a keen fight or flight instinct that always seemed to be right on the mark. There was no gray area for Arya. You either ran away to safety or you stayed and fought the battle. Admittedly, those battles had been small when they were children. Taking a bath, finishing needlework, getting hair styled appropriately. But Arya always knew when to scurry off to the safety of her father's arms, and when to stand her ground with her mother.

Although Sansa usually found it infuriating, she had grown to admire it more as they'd gotten older. Not that she would have ever told Arya that.

When their father was killed, Arya ran. Sansa liked to imagine what her sister might be doing now – what sort of grand adventures she had on her way back to Winterfell. For surely that was where she would go. And Sansa willed her to get there safely, as if by imagining Arya's homecoming enough times, she could make it true. It was a comfort to believe that at least some small part of her family was together again, even if she was not among them.

Sansa had never known when to run and when to fight. She was good at being obedient, and obedience left very little room to choose one's path. It had been easy to be obedient to her mother and father. They were kind and wise, and she knew that she could trust them. But here in King's Landing, things were different. Sansa was still obedient. That trait had saved her life more than once. But it was not because she loved and respected those who commanded her. It was because she feared them. Fear, she found, was an entirely different motivator. She also found that, even if she did not know when to flee or fight, she did know how to survive.

She was good at surviving, and in her new world that was truly the only thing that mattered. She knew how to act, how to speak, how to walk, how to exist in such a way that no one would find fault with her. With the exception of Joffrey, of course, but that was only because he delighted in her shame. Sansa had even learned how to take his punishments in a way that pleased him most. It was painful, but she did it. She got through it, because she wanted to survive. As long as she survived, there was hope.

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His cloak was heavy on her shoulders. Sansa knelt there, willing herself to maintain some sort of composure. That's what her mother would want her to do. Starks were strong, even in the face of adversity. She would not break down in front of the whole of court. A lady maintained dignity, she reminded herself, even as tears sprung up in her eyes.

Thank the Gods for Tyrion Lannister. She never imagined she would think those words, but the imp had saved her from what would surely have been the most shameful experience of her life. And the Hound … no one had moved when Tyrion demanded that she be covered. No one but him. She clutched the cloak more tightly around herself, taking the hand Tyrion offered her.

"Tell me the truth," Tyrion said quietly, "Do you want an end to this engagement?"

Her response was so rehearsed, so automatic, that Sansa didn't even think about it.

"I am loyal to King Joffrey," she said, and her voice sounded dead even to her own ears. "My one true love."

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"What the hell does he think he's doing?" the Hound growled, "He was willing to strip a girl naked in court. His future _wife._"

Tyrion eyed the scarred man in front of him. He shared Sandor's rage, but he controlled it.

"Hopefully my … arrangement will curb his appetite for pain and replace it with something more useful," he replied evenly.

The Hound slammed his hands down on the table. "And do you think he will be gentle with that?" he asked angrily, "Do you think he will turn into a sweet, sensitive boy? All this will do is introduce him to new ways to hurt her."

"Temper, temper," Tyrion replied, pouring them both a glass of wine, "Need I remind you that you're speaking out of turn?"

Sandor fumed, but kept his mouth shut.

"Let us at least try this," Tyrion said, "Honestly, I don't know if it will change the way he treats the Stark girl at all. But it might. I don't want to see her hurt anymore than you do."

"What makes you think I give a damn?" Sandor asked.

"Are we really playing this game? No one would help her today, you know. Except you."

"Someone had to do something. I did not relish being the one to do it."

Tyrion shook his head, knowing he could not convince the Hound otherwise. And there would be no point to it, at that.

"Go and make sure everything is in place for Joffrey's present," he said instead, waving Sandor away.

"Oh, and by the way," he added, "Do not forget what happened today. Whether you relish it or not, you may well be Sansa's only protector in this place."

The door slammed loudly behind the Hound.

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Sansa ordered her maids to draw her a bath, dismissing them as soon as it was prepared. She needed to be alone. She needed to nurse her wounds, physical and emotional. Most of all, she needed to cry. But the tears that seemed so close to the surface would not come. Had she trained herself that well? The hot water eased the pain of her aching limbs. She looked at her pale skin, wondering how long it would take before Joffrey's tortures left scars. How could she marry this man?

She longed to be free. She longed to be with Arya, who she still imagined forging her way through the forest, bound for Winterfell. She longed to be with her family, away from the never-ending horror of King's Landing. She cursed herself for once begging her mother to ensure an engagement to Joffrey. She had been a stupid child, idiotic and naïve, thinking that every prince was like the ones in her stories.

The Hound's cloak lay draped over a chair in the corner. Sansa had felt like a bird stripped of its feathers when she had finally taken it off. Strange though it seemed, the weight of it on her shoulders had brought her comfort. A feeling of safety she'd forgotten could exist. It was foolish, she knew. He was no safer than the others – only, perhaps, not as cruel. He was harsh and angry, but it was the highly thought-of knights who had happily beaten her. Not him. Never him. The more time she spent in King's Landing, the more Sansa came to believe that appearance and title meant nothing when it came to honor. At first glance, then men she would have trusted with her life were instead the ones who most enjoyed making it hell. And the one who had frightened her so terribly …

There was a knock on the door.

"Just a moment," Sansa called out. Terror coursed through her body. Truthfully, she did not want to open the door for anyone. But it could be Joffrey. It could be the Queen. It could be any number of people who would punish her if she did not comply quickly. Sansa suddenly wished she hadn't dismissed all of her maids. What a stupid thing to do, leaving herself alone and vulnerable. It was not as if any of them could be of use to her, but she at least felt a little better when she wasn't alone.

The knock came again, a hard pounding. Sansa grabbed the Hound's cloak hastily, wrapping it around herself. All of court had seen her clothes torn away – what was left that could be shocking?

"I'm coming," she called, and hurried to open the door.

The Hound stood in front of her, and Sansa knew he was trying to hide is shock at her appearance.

"I'll return later," he said quickly, averting his eyes.

"No, it's all right," Sansa said, taking a steadying breath, "This is nothing new, after all."

The Hound looked at her cautiously, "I've come to collect my cloak … but I see you are still using it. Have one of your maids deliver it to me when you are finished."

Sansa nodded silently, and he turned to go.

"Wait," she called suddenly, and he turned, "I just wanted to … thank you."

She heard her own voice crack at the words. How silly, she thought, that she could not cry alone, but would break when she tried to thank the man who had helped her.

"You don't have to thank me," he said gruffly, "I did not do you a kindness, little bird."

"It is the closest thing to a kindness I've known in this place."

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Sandor wanted to pretend he hadn't heard her. He wanted to keep walking away, and await one of her maids to return his property. But her words – the fact that she felt the need to thank him for doing something as simple as covering her – made his blood boil.

He turned back around and looked at her, a small figure folded in his cloak. He noticed that her hair was wet, and wondered if he'd called her from the bath. Unbidden, thoughts flooded his mind. Was she wearing nothing else?

Mentally, Sandor shook himself. Sansa did not need another man to be afraid of, and judging by the way she was eyeing him now, she'd seen the hunger in his gaze. He dropped his eyes to the floor.

"You should never thank the likes of me," he said, "Save your praises for knights on white horses, little bird, not dogs."

Without another word, he took his leave.

Sansa watched his retreating figure, feeling a deep sadness tug at her heart.

"It would appear a dog is all I have," she whispered, and her tears began to fall.


	2. Chapter 2

Sandor was furious. Tyrion's idiotic idea had nearly cost two women their lives. They were whores, yes, but they were outcasts like him, and he hated to see unnecessary cruelty. When it was warranted, he reveled in it. But he couldn't imagine forcing two women to do such horrible things.

He'd felt sick when he saw them emerge from Joffrey's rooms. If he'd had any idea what was going on inside … well, there was no point in even thinking of that. What would he have done? Charged through the door to stop the king? Not if he valued his life. And some days, he did.

Sandor wasn't used to valuing his life. And he knew why things had changed. It was Sansa. His little bird. If he was gone – if something happened to him – what would become of her? He asked that question often, and hated himself all the more for it. What business was it of his if a noble girl with her nose in the air was finally cured of her childish fantasies about princes and knights?

But then he thought of Joffrey, ordering her beaten and stripped in court. He thought of how small and vulnerable she looked in nothing but his cloak. His blood boiled at the idea that he was the only one who would help her. What a mockery of chivalry. The Hound was the only one left to save the maiden. He let out a cold, short laugh. Life was full of little ironies.

There was a knock on the door of his room.

"Enter," Sandor called.

Tyrion walked through the door.

"Out," Sandor commanded, barely turning around.

"You are not the one to give orders," Tyrion replied coolly.

"I could still be the one to kill you."

"Watch your threats, dog."

Sandor turned around, "What the hell have you done?" he growled.

Tyrion sighed, "I can only assuming you're referring to my little plan. Well, obviously it did not go as expected. But we are now even more aware of Joffrey's nature, and that knowledge can only be good."

"Do you know what he'll do to her?" Sandor could feel his voice growing louder, but he couldn't seem to quiet it, "Have you even thought of it?"

"Thought of what he'll do to Sansa? Yes. It won't be pretty, but it won't be as bad as that. He has to save some sort of face."

Sandor grunted.

"Look, I don't relish this conversation any more than you do," the imp said, "I only came to say that you must keep an eye on the Stark girl. I will do my best to protect her but I am not always …" he motioned down at himself, "Intimidating."

"Why does it matter to you?"

Tyrion shrugged, "Think what you will of me, dog, but I am not a cruel man. I do not wish pain on others who have not caused me pain. Sansa is a sweet, kind girl. It is only a matter of time before this place destroys that. But until then…" his voice grew tired, "Let us just see if we can't make this easier for her. You and I are the only ones who seem to give a damn."

After he'd gone, Sandor pounded a fist hard into the stone wall. What the fuck did Tyrion think he had been trying to do? Keep her safe, keep her protected, keep her free from pain. It was like trying to hold water in his hands. He wished Sansa Stark had never come to King's Landing. Working at Cersei's command – that was easy. Her decisions were resolute. She was a hard woman, and the only protection she needed was the willingness of one man to kill another to keep her safe.

Sansa was so much more complicated. It seemed that physical protection was one of the only things Sandor couldn't provide her. Because how could he protect her from the King? Even his words in court had seemed useless until Tyrion entered the room and commanded the knights to stop.

Protecting her required something else entirely, and Sandor did not know if he possessed it. A girl such as that needed kindness and trust in a place like this. Sandor offered neither of those things. He was not kind. He was not trustworthy. If given the chance, he knew what he wanted to do to her. He'd been thinking about it ever since she answered the door with her hair still wet from the bath. Every moment required an excess of self-control. And self-control was not Sandor's strong suite. He'd never needed it before.

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There were whispers in the halls. Sansa could only imagine what they were about, but the ladies were looking at her with a vague sort of pity, and the men wouldn't meet her eyes. Not that she ever attempted to meet eyes with anyone. She was terrified of what their behavior might mean. What did they know that she didn't? If there was one thing Sansa had learned in King's Landing, it was that knowledge was more valuable than all else. Knowledge meant having time to react. Time to plan. That was how Sansa handled every encounter with Joffrey. She almost always knew that it was coming, and she gave herself time to prepare. She prayed to the Gods, she made sure that Shae did her hair in a way that would please him – anything and everything that might make the experience a little bit better. She had learned, especially after the scene in court, that at least he would never seriously harm her face. That was good, she supposed. A woman with a ruined face was ruined entirely. And even if he was the one to destroy it, Joffrey would still blame her if someday she was no longer pretty. He would throw her away, and life as ruined woman might even be worse than life as a queen. The rest of her body, though, was fair game. Sansa did not want to cry when he hit her. She did not want to beg him to stop, because Starks did not beg. She did not want to show weakness, because she wanted to make her father proud. Even if he was gone.

But she did cry, and she did beg. Because Joffrey liked it when she did that. He liked to be feared and adored and in control. And Sansa gave him what he wanted, and continued to survive. She wasn't sure why her survival was so important, but there was something inside of her that urged her to keep going. Thoughts of her family, and Arya running free in the woods. Sansa didn't know if she would ever see them again, but she liked to imagine that she might. And she promised herself that she would keep fighting until every last bit of hope was gone.

She was returning to her rooms after supper when she heard two women talking around the corner. She recognized one of the voices as belonging to Shae.

"-within an inch of their lives," she was saying to one of the other maids, "He did not even use them for their intended purpose."

"Well you know what they say – a child of incest, no wonder he is sick in the head."

"Marielle, do not say such things. Even only to me."

"Well, it's true. You know it as well as I … what do you think these means for your lady?"

Sansa heard sadness in Shae's voice, "Nothing good. If this is how he treats his whores, I can only imagine what her fate will be."

"But he needs her for children."

"And not much else."

There were no pieces left for Sansa to put together. She understood what had happened. Holding her composure, she hurried out to the gardens. It was dangerous to be outside alone, but she didn't care. By the sounds of it, she could be in no worse danger outside than she would be inside. Perhaps it was even safer.

The breeze that blew in from the ocean never ceased, and it chilled the evening air. Sansa walked slowly, trying to process this latest event. So, Joffrey had beaten whores. That did not sound unlike him. It worried her, though, that he had apparently done nothing else. What sort of man was it, she reasoned, that would rather beat a woman than fuck her? No, she thought to herself, not fuck. Such language was not appropriate for a lady, even if she only thought it. She ought to think 'make love'. That was how it would happen in stories. Sansa gave a humorless laugh, thinking of her own stupidity at believing that such stories could be real. That love could be real. It was a fantasy, especially in a place like this.

She did not want to think of Joffrey. She wanted to turn her mind to other things, as she so often tried to do when she was not in his presence. But try as she might, her thoughts would not stray away from him. The permanence of her situation weighed down on her like a ship made of iron. It pushed against her chest until breathing became impossible. Sansa willed herself to calm down, to consider everything one moment at a time. That was the only way to get by. If she started to think like this – to imagine a life lived this way, with a man who delighted in hurting her, spending all of her days with him trapped in this place and never able to go home –

Sinking to the ground against an old tree, Sansa let a sob escape her. How could she go on like this? How could she maintain hope? Every day was hell on earth.

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A strange noise had come from the tree by the wall. Sandor could swear it sounded like an injured animal. He was coming home from the pub, and all he wanted was his bed. But on the chance of danger, he drew his sword and moved forward.

"Make your presence known," he called into the darkness.

"It's me."

The voice was small, and sounded strange, as if it were being choked. Sandor hated the fact that 'me' did not even have to state her name. He knew her voice.

He sheathed his sword and approached the tree cautiously. Sansa sat huddled on the ground, shaking.

"You should not be out here unaccompanied."

"Did you know?"

Sansa looked up at him, the moonlight playing in her eyes. They shone with tears, and Sandor understood what she was asking about.

"Yes, little bird. I knew."

"Everyone seems to know. They're all talking about it."

"Well, you know people in this place. They will cling to any gossip they can find."

"What am I going to do?" Sansa whispered the words so quietly that Sandor could barely hear her.

He did not know what to say. What could he tell a woman doomed to marry a man like that? He sat down next to her.

"Keep going," he replied simply, "There is nothing else to do but that."

"Sometimes," Sansa said slowly, "I feel that you are the only one who understands."

"Don't talk like that. Do not compare yourself to the likes of me."

"You feel it too, don't you? We understand each other."

Sandor couldn't stand this. Sansa could not think this way – could not possibly believe that they were somehow connected. It was disgusting. She should not even consider it. Before he could stop himself, he turned and pushed her against the tree.

"Do not believe for a moment that we understand each other," he said roughly, staring into her terrified eyes, "I am the last person you will understand. The last person you can trust. Do you know what I could do to you right now? No one knows where you are, little bird. This could end badly for you. I do not stand on honor."

Every word tasted bitter on his tongue. He did not want to frighten Sansa. He did not want her to believe that he would hurt her – but she had to believe it. The only thing worse than her fearing him would be her caring for him. Sandor did not think he could live with himself if she came to trust him and he failed her. For surely he would fail. That was all he could do.

"Do it," Sansa whispered.

"What?"

"Do it," her voice dragged him away from his thoughts, "Do you think you could do worse to me that has already been done? Than will be done? You tell me you are a brute. That I do not understand you. Prove it, then. Prove that I am wrong to think that you will not let harm come to me."

There was fear in her voice, but also strength. Sandor hated her for that. Because as she spoke those words, he realized that she already knew what he was just now coming to know himself. He could not live if he hurt her. He could never hurt her, or stand by while someone else caused her pain. Not if he could help it. For the same reason he had dropped his gaze when he'd seen her in his cloak. She did not need any more men to fear.

Slowly, he released her.

"You make a mistake to trust me," he said, "But you are right, little bird. I will not let harm come to you while it is in my power to prevent it."

A ghost of a smile crossed her face, and Sandor felt as if he would do anything just to see it again. How rarely Sansa smiled, he realized. How shameful that it could affect him so much.

"Thank you," she said, and reached up tentatively, laying a delicate hand on his face.

And then she was gone.

Sandor sat under the tree until the early morning, wondering how long he could protect a bird trapped in a cage of spikes.


	3. Chapter 3

When Sandor passed Sansa in the hall the next morning, she smiled at him.

It was a small smile, not enough that anyone else would notice – but he noticed, and he knew it was meant for him.

It made him feel sick.

Part of him wished he had hurt her last night. Just to show her how stupid she was for thinking that being alone with him was not dangerous. He should have done something, anything to shake away her notions of chivalry and kindness. He was not a kind man.

But he couldn't take back the interaction. For a moment he had been kind, and he knew that Sansa would cling to that kindness. Cling to it because it was probably the only real kindness she'd seen in months. How twisted that it came from him. How wrong that she would only be disappointed from this point forward. It was a cruel joke that he'd been the one to protect her decency in the court, that he'd been the one to find her last night. The Gods were pushing him into her life for their own amusement. Watching to see how long he could take it before it broke him.

And Sandor had dreams about breaking.

For weeks, he'd had dreams about finding himself alone with Sansa. They were unceasing, especially after a night of drink. Dreams in which it didn't matter that he was a dog and she was the king's future wife. Dreams that reminded him of just what he was capable of if he ever let himself lose control around her.

Last night had almost pushed him to the brink. When he slammed her against that tree. When she'd begged him to do it and prove that he would hurt her, he had almost done it. It was not that he wanted to hurt her. It was that he wanted to take her. Pain was just a side effect. He had found his control just in time, reminding himself that it would be his life if he slipped. Sandor wanted to tell himself that that was the only reason he'd stopped – because as miserable as his life was, he did not want to be killed for something like this. But he knew the real reason was her. It was always her.

He hated her for it, but not as much as he hated himself.

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When Sansa smiled at him, he looked as though he might kill her.

The Hound was a source of constant confusion for her. A man feared by everyone, who wasn't governed by morals of right and wrong. But at the same time, a man who had never been cruel to her, who had even shown kindness once or twice. But Sansa realized that it was a delicate balancing game. And she wondered sometimes what might happen if she caught him in the wrong mood or found herself alone with him when he did not feel like indulging her ramblings.

How very much like a dog, she thought. A wild dog. One moment it was willing to walk alongside you, the next moment it was ready to attack. It was frustrating, never knowing which version she would meet next. Never knowing how safe he really was. But still, she preferred him to anyone else in court. She preferred his company to the king's. Joffrey's moods were ever changing, too. But when he lashed out, he hurt her. Sansa was finally beginning to feel better after the scene he'd made in court, but she dreaded seeing him again. It was best when their meetings were brief and infrequent. It gave her time to heal and prepare for the next encounter. Always preparing, always dreading. That was how she lived now – so very different from the carefree days she'd spent at Winterfell.

Sansa liked to imagine her brother Robb storming across the land, cutting down men who were loyal to the Lannisters and coming to take her away from here. They would go someplace safe, where Arya and her family would be waiting. She decided that she would apologize to her sister the next time she saw her. Because perhaps if she had been as brave as Arya, if she'd been less concerned about propriety and doing what she was told, perhaps she would not be trapped here now. Sansa had never loved the outdoors the way Arya did, but she still thought that she would be happier eating in the dirt and escaping through the woods to safety than sleeping on her feather bed in King's Landing.

"My lady, what is this?"

Sansa entered her chambers and found Shae holding up the Hound's stained white cloak.

"I found it under your bed when I was changing the linens," Shae continued, "Surely you did not wish to keep it?"

Her gaze told Sansa that she knew more than she was letting on. As was so often with Shae, she spoke in words that veiled the real situation. Sometimes Sansa wondered if she was a spy – or used to be. She always spoke carefully, but had a way of looking at Sansa that told her something entirely different than the words that came out of her mouth.

"Of course I didn't mean to keep it," Sansa replied, although she was quite certain that both she and Shae knew the opposite to be true, "I must have forgotten about it."

"I'll have it washed before it is returned."

"No, leave it as it is," Sansa couldn't explain why, but she was sure that the Hound would want it back just as it was when he'd given it to her.

"Yes, my lady. And – there is something else," The way Shae said the words, Sansa knew it was nothing good.

"The king wishes to see you."

"Do you know why?" Sansa held her voice steady, but her hands subconsciously wrapped around herself, fully aware of the pain that was just now subsiding.

"I think it is to discuss Myrcella's sendoff tomorrow."

"What could he possible have to say to me about that?"

"I don't know. I'm sorry, my lady."

Sansa knew that Shae's "I'm sorry" was for something much deeper than simply not knowing why Joffrey wanted to see her.

"It's all right. Help me fix my hair."

Sansa could feel herself shaking as she sat down in front of the mirror.

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Sandor was standing outside the door to Joffrey's chambers when Sansa approached. She'd redone her hair, and despite her beautiful dress she looked like someone on a death march. Sandor could not blame her – she surely relished her time with Joffrey no more than he relished guarding the king's door.

"The king said he wished to see me," Sansa said, refusing to meet Sandor's eyes.

Sandor stepped aside, opening the door and realizing that he was doing his own little part to seal Sansa in hell. What the king did made no difference to him, except when it came to her. But he closed the door anyway, resuming his post outside and making all sorts of promises to himself about what he would do if he heard her screaming. Promises that he would never keep. He would remain at his post, like a good dog. Her situation did not – could not – involve him.

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"You asked to see me, my king," Sansa said when she entered the room, dipping into a curtsey.

Joffrey did not bother to turn around, keeping his gaze out the window.

"What do you think of my mother shipping Myrcella off tomorrow?" He asked.

Sansa froze for a moment. Questions like these were usually a trick – there was no obvious right or wrong answer, which meant that Joffrey could punish her no matter what she said.

"I believe that if it is the will of your family and the Gods, then it is good. I wish her well."

There. The safest answer she could give.

"But she will miss us, surely," Joffrey said, turning around, "As you miss your family."

There was a threat in his eyes, daring her to agree. Sansa dropped her gaze.

"You are my family," she replied, "I have no other."

"I hope that you speak the truth," Joffrey approached her, lifting her chin, "Because the rest of the Starks will soon be dead and rotting, just like your father."

Sansa tried to keep the tears from her eyes, but she knew Joffrey saw them.

"Are you crying for a traitor?" he asked, his voice soft and cold.

"No," Sansa already knew he wouldn't believe her.

The slap was hard – not the worst she'd gotten at his hand, but it stung her face and left her ears ringing. She let out a sharp cry.

"Let that be a reminder to you," Joffrey said, grabbing her hair and yanking her head back. Sansa whimpered. "I require unwavering loyalty, Sansa. That is not much to ask of my future wife." He let go, shoving her back. "And my mother wants you to attend Myrcella's sendoff tomorrow. That is all."

Sansa curtsied again, wishing Cersei could have simply told her to come to the sendoff herself. "Yes, my-"

"Out."

Rising, Sansa hurried to the door. That had not been as bad as she expected. Her face still hurt, and she knew he'd cut her cheek with his ring. But it was not so terrible. It would heal quickly.

Sandor was standing outside the door, eyeing her silently as she stepped out.

"What?" she asked sharply, knowing that he was looking at the blood she could feel on her face, "Why do you look surprised?"

The Hound said nothing, but made a move to reach for a cloth in his belt.

"No," Sansa said, "I will tend to this myself."

She did not want to want his help. This was at least one small thing she could handle on her own. One small thing that did not require anyone else running to her rescue. But even as she hurried down the hall, Sansa wondered what it would have felt like to have his rough hand caress her face, softly wiping away the newest of Joffrey's wounds.

But how much kindness could a dog really give?

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Sandor watched Sansa leave, his hand still frozen in a move to offer her his handkerchief. He couldn't blame her for walking away so quickly – after all, what woman wanted the help of a man who stood by silently while another hurt her?

It was not his business, but he hated to see the blood bloom on her pale face. Sandor had never hated the sight of blood before. He reveled in it on the battlefield, reveled in the way it splattered the earth as life drained from the men he killed. He gloried in it, preferring to see his sword red than clean.

Yet when he saw blood on Sansa Stark, it made him sick.


End file.
